((First of all, the disclaimer.
I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or any other character mentioned in the story that follows the Author's Note. The script of "A Study in Pink" belongs to BBC one, written by Steven Moffat. Most of the dialogue you will see in this story is a carbon copy from the original episode. While I did manipulate it to accommodate Johnna Watson in place of John Watson, I still fork over all credit to Mr. Moffat.
Borrowed lines from the script "A Study in Pink" from this facebook page: BbcsSherlockAStudyInPinkFullScript
Another thing I should point out is that I am an American and I have very little of not any knowledge of British slang or terminology for certain objects. I tried to stick to what I knew. Crisps = chips, etc. If anyone has any pointers on handling the difference between British and American terminology, I'd be happy to hear you out.))
Johnna gave a small smile at the tiny pile of envelopes on her desk she had just set down. The post had arrived before she had returned from picking up a coffee down the block from her hotel, the deck clerk polite when she handed the little stack to her but her gaze was sympathetic once Johnna glanced up to give her thanks. It was the sympathy that burned more intensely than the recovery pains. She never asked to be pitied by others. It was her choice to ignore her own injuries to tend to another wounded soldier; the results of her actions had mangled the muscle in her thigh from the prolonged presence of the bullet, combined with her stubborn use of her limbs in trying to move him to safety. The surgery had been long and tedious thanks to her efforts working the bullet further in but at least she was better off than the soldier she had tried to save.
Pushing aside the envelopes, she spread them across the polished surface of the desk, reading over the addresses to determine what she would find inside of each one. A late birthday card from Harry (no chance of reading it anytime soon), a subscription renewal request from an age-old magazine she never wanted to begin with, the credit card bill. It was all mundane until she noticed a familiar, handwritten address. She always recognized the sender of those letters and gave a soft sigh as she picked it up. Sliding her finger under the flap, Johnna opened the letter and withdrew the folded notebook paper always found within. Bradley's letters were always handwritten on whatever paper he had in reach, mostly ripped from a notebook. He was old fashioned and preferred traditional post compared to the more commonly used electronic method. They had a few chats on the internet in the past but after he started pointing out the rather stoic nature of her expressions she always made, she ended them in favor of the written word. This way she could conceal the sad truth much easier.
Johnna shifted her weight upon her cane, maneuvering herself about and approaching the bed where she propped it against the night stand and stretched herself out upon the mattress, unfolding the letter in her hands. Settling her head into the pillow, she began to read.
Hey, Doc, how's the leg?
I know you hate it when I ask about it but I'm allowed some concern for your well-being. You did save my life after all. Don't deny it, I know you will but it's true and I'll keep reminding you of that whether you like it or not.
Anyway, things are getting a little quiet back home. I haven't found a job yet but no one is complaining yet. Donna says she wants to move in together but I'm pretty sure once she moves in, I'll have less time to write and that means more short-hand emails. Donna is mostly okay with me writing to you but she does get a little pissy sometimes when I spend too long at the desk. But since I mentioned moving, I thought this would be a good opportunity to ask if you're still bunking at that hotel in London. You mentioned last time that the pension was shit for keeping a roof over your head and that room's got to be wearing a hole in your savings by now. Did you get an apartment yet? Or do you guys call them "flats" there? Whatever, you know what I mean.
Write me and let me know what you're up to, John
(Some advice about how to handle Donna wouldn't be too bad either.)
Bradley
"John, huh?" Johnna mused, laying the letter upon her stomach and folding her hands over it while she observed the ceiling. "That's not very romantic, is it?"
Bradley started calling her John for short back when they were still bandaged up in their make-shift hospital back in Afghanistan. Mostly he did it because that was where her name was derived from, a feminine version of John that her mother plucked from a newspaper article, thinking it was a charming way to comfort her father's disappointment in not having a son. The American soldier never showed any romantic interest in her but it would be rather disappointing to his girlfriend's suspicions to see that her boyfriend was nicknaming his female penpal a masculine name of all things. Their friendship was formed over recovery time before they were both given honorable discharge for their injuries. A dismissal neither of them liked. Since he returned to America, he insisted they stay in touch and it led to the letters and minute internet chats. Once he invited her to come to the states and stay with him for a while after her army pension began and the low numbers became a threat to her ability to live in London but she refused. London was home and since she was robbed of the soldier's life she wasn't ready to leave, she couldn't be anywhere else.
The contents of the letter brought back the ongoing threat of the truth though. She would have to find a permanent place to stay and soon. The hotel fees were draining her account and there were no friends to stay with thanks to her stubbornness to not live off of the generosity of others. Too much time had passed since she last talked to some of them, making the rifts formidable to bridge. Family, well, family was out of the question. She would have to go out and look some more, money willing or not. Something had to change and soon.
She picked up the letter again, re-reading the contents and lingering on his last lines.
Write me and let me know what you are up to, John.
"That would be a short letter, indeed." She scoffed, wincing as she pushed herself to sit upright. The scar pulls a bit when she's not careful and it's an uncomfortable feeling. Pulling herself back to lean against the headboard of the bed, her eyes lowered to her leg. The wound itself was mostly healed in the months since its infliction but there was still muscle damage, slowly repairing itself within. Resting her hand over her thigh, she could just feel the ridges of the scar tissue through her trouser leg. "Nothing ever happens to me."
Even with the letter waiting on the desk to be replied to, Johnna hadn't taken the time to sit down and write Bradley back yet. There was nothing to write about, really. She wasn't kidding when she mused it would be a short letter. She needed to find something to write about before putting pen to paper. Something better than regaling him of her sitting about the hotel room with nothing to mention but the slow progress of her leg's healing—hardly a cheery message to be mailing off to America. Bradley had enough misery with his own lot after the war. Scooting the chair away from the unanswered letter, Johnna stood herself up, grasping her cane and putting some distance between herself and the desk. She crossed the room to the small closet where her coat was hanging. Dark brown pea coat with scuffed buttons from a nasty fall she took weeks into her return from London. The bruises healed, the pride didn't. Pulling it free from the hanger and propping her cane against the wall, she slung the coat on in a practiced motion, maintaining her balance until she had it buttoned and could retrieve her cane from its resting place.
While she might have been ready to head out the door, Johnna paused, glancing about the empty hotel room. She hadn't considered where she would go and the room had no suggestions to offer aside from the single newspaper add listing rentals in the area she had already crossed out two times over. The red marks laughed at her from across the room, much to her distaste. She tapped the foot of the cane a few times on the floor, debating over options on where to head out to. She didn't need to eat, that cost money. Already had a coffee, and hardly had money to shop like her past friends would have suggested. Perhaps there was only one option left in the end and that was the ongoing house hunt. Turning about, she opened up the door and headed into the hallway.
As always, the third floor passage was empty of other hotel inhabitants and it was a straight stretch to the lift where the first sign of life was already waiting. It was a young girl, a teenager no doubt, staring at the illuminated down arrow above the door and shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. She was near Johnna's height, dark hair pulled in a tail that she had draped over her shoulder. Her head lolled from side to side until she noticed Johnna's presence and stilled herself.
She stood beside her, keeping a respectable distance while observing their vague reflections in the chrome of the lift doors. The girl eyed her cane; she could see from the corner of her eye and glanced her way. She hastily averted her gaze the moment their eyes met. As the lift doors opened, they both stepped inside, putting their backs to opposite ends of the little box. Johnna lifted her cane, hitching it up in her hand and extending it to tap the Lobby button. It must have been the one the girl also needed for she made no move to select another floor, merely stood still and kept her eyes averted. The doors closed and Johnna expected a silent ride down but the girl looked to her again, obviously curious but Johnna didn't want to explain herself. She chose to be polite in any case.
"Are you visiting London?" she asked, interrupting the silence.
"Yeah, my dad's here on a business trip and invited me along." The girl confirmed.
"How do you like it?" Johnna asked.
"It's okay. It's colder than I thought it would be." The teen patted her heavy down coat with a coy smile.
"You'll get used to it." She murmured as the lift came to a stop and the doors opened to release them. The teen nodded her head to her before hurrying out of the elevator, Johnna following afterward. She headed out of the elevator and made her way through the lobby of the hotel. It was quiet and only a few people were in front of the desk, Johnna passing them and heading out the glass doors where the cool air chilled her nose as a reminder of the statement the teen had made about the city's cooler temperature. Turning herself about, Johnna began down the sidewalk.
One always gets used to a chilly London afternoon.
There was a small park between the hotel and a housing district, if she crossed through there, she could browse through and look for advertisements posted along the street. Surely she could look through there again. Maybe this time she would get lucky? Johnna took her time in making the decision to cross the street to reach the park, checking for automobiles and trying to usher herself across the street as quickly as she could before reaching the safety of the curb. A man had offered to help her up onto the curb but she declined the offer, flashing a slight smile at him in gratitude for the gesture. Johnna soldiered on to the park, entering through the open gateway and following the walkway that cut a serpentine path through the dead grass.
A few people lingered in the park, familiar with the climate enough to tolerate it on the gray but rainless afternoon. She could feel a finger of the cold try to creep down the collar of her coat, resisting the urge to shiver and keeping a brisk walk to hurry through the open space. Tack it on paranoia from years in an environment where open spaces were unsafe, parks just made her feel exposed. Glancing around she could see some of the benches occupied, a few meandering citizens, and a woman with a buggy walking in the opposite direction of her. All of them were simply strangers in passing. Faces she would never see again thanks to the sheer scale and population of the city of London. She continued on until she passed another bench where a man was seated, observing a document in his hands. His fingers adjusted the position of his glasses briefly, eyes flicked up momentarily as she passed before he hurriedly set his papers aside and rose from the bench. "Johnna?"
She hesitated, glancing back at him as he approached her. The familiarity in his voice marked recognition but she failed to summon a name to the face until he held his hand out to her. "Mike, Mike Stamford. Do you remember me? We were at Bart's together"
"Oh!" It dawned on her the moment she heard his name and quickly accepted the hand. "Mike, yes! Um, how are you?"
"Overworked and underpaid," he chuckled, shaking her hand. His grip lingered a little longer as he stared into her face. Johnna swallowed, easing her hand away and placing it in her coat pocket while he braced his upon his hip. "What have you been up to, Johnna? The last I heard, you were in the Middle East, right?"
"Yes," she nodded, glancing down at her leg. He followed her gaze and his expression turned uncomfortable. "Yes, I was, but I'm on leave now."
"Well, come, come, have a seat!" He stepped closer to her, slipping a hand about and placing it against her back, urging her to sit down. She lowered herself upon the bench and Mike cleared his things away, inserting it all into a briefcase. "Are you staying here in London?"
Johnna nodded, crinkling her nose as a cold breeze stirred her hair and whipped it into her face. She brushed it aside to clear away the obscurity it had become. It was times like this when she missed her shorter hair but didn't take the time to try and get it cut since she came home. It was a hassle but not so much of one she wanted to pay for a trim.
"Where?"
"Oh, lodging at a hotel at the moment." Johnna explained; nodding in the direction she had come from. "I couldn't afford a flat, not with army pension, anyway."
"Couldn't Harry help?"
Johnna remained silent as she peered down at the cane laying it across her lap. "That's not going to happen."
"Well, you could always get a flatshare." He suggested, "That should help with expenses."
"Come on," she scoffed, "You know how I am, Mike. Who would want me for a flatmate?"
Mike shrugged his shoulders, leaning back against the bench. "You're not unbearable company, Johnna. I remember us having a good chat or two in the past. However, I suppose it is not unheard of, people believing they aren't the sort to live with others." A slight smile flicked across his lips as he chuckled to himself. "Come to think of it, I have heard someone say the same thing recently."
"Then it is not unusual." She pointed out.
"No, I suppose not." He mused. "By the way, I don't suppose you have an hour free at the moment?"
Johnna raised an eyebrow at him. "Nothing planned, why?"
"Why don't I take you to lunch and we'll continue our chat?" he offered with an encouraging smile that Johnna averted her eyes from. He checked his watch, "I just started my lunch so I have plenty of time." She wrapped her fingers around her cane, debating over the offer. In the past, Mike had always been friendly and open with her while she interned in her short-lived employment at Bart's so she knew he meant no harm by inviting her to lunch. Her inner debate triggered him to shift his position, nudging her arm lightly. "It would be my treat, of course."
Johnna smiled, tucking a little more hair behind her ear and giving him a small nod. "How could I say no?"
Mike chuckled, reaching over and picking up his suitcase. He heaved himself up off of the bench and offered a hand to her to help her up but she politely declined the offer. Setting her cane down, she slowly rose up to her feet, keeping her injured leg straight in front of her as she rose up, correcting her stance with a slight shift of her shoulders. Mike pocketed the hand he had offered her with an understanding smile.
"One more thing." He indicated the way they would walk with a slight gesture of his hand. "We need to stop by Bart's. I left my wallet behind and I need it if I am going to pay for a meal."
The morgue smelled the same as always, full of the sterile scent of bleach with a mixture of other chemicals he didn't care to list as he crossed the room and stood over the first autopsy table where a sleek, black body bag was waiting for him. Molly stepped carefully around him, keeping a distant orbit about him as she always did whenever he came to conduct an experiment. Bending over the head of the bag he seized the zipper and wrenched it open with a quick jerk, parting the flaps aside and staring into the face of the deceased, twitching his nose at the ripening smell of the unpreserved body. It was only a matter of time before he would start to stink.
"How fresh?" he inquired as Molly made another circle around him.
"Just in." her wry laugh signaled some anxiety but Sherlock ignored it, observing the cadaver as she continued to rattle off information of little use to him. "Sixty seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him, he was nice."
Zipping up the bag again, Sherlock turned to the lingering examiner. "Right. We'll start with the riding crop."
He gave a quick smile her way, turning around on his heel to retrieve the whip while Molly left the room to get back to work. With the riding crop in hand, he unfastened the bag again, pushing it open and exposing the body for his use, completely undisturbed by the naked state of the corpse when he eyed the area of the body in question where the bruising of the murder victim had been found. Making a mental note of the exact range on where he could strike, Sherlock proceeded without hesitation, whipping the cold flesh repeatedly and at different variations of angle and intensity. One positive thing about this experiment was that he could unleash some frustrations at the same time and struck harder until he finally reached a satisfactory number of blows.
Turning away from the body, he caught his breath as he tossed the riding crop to the stainless steel table, catching a glimpse of Molly out of the corner of his eye as she approached the table, eyeing the body with a touch of concern in her expression. With a breathless laugh, she smiled up at him, recovering from her discomfort and smiling coyly up at him. "So, bad day, was it?"
He ignored the attempt she made at conversation, pulling a notebook from his pocket and jotting down a few notes about the pattern and number of whips. "I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." He instructed as he wrote, only this time Molly seemed to ignore his direction and began to speak about something else entirely.
"Listen, I was wondering…" she began but Sherlock's casual glance in her direction turned into another observation.
"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." He noted, eyeing the light pink shade.
"I, er, I refreshed it a bit." She quipped with a smile.
Clearly she was lying but since it wasn't a major one, Sherlock wrote it off and returned to his notes. "Sorry, you were saying?"
"I was wondering if you would like to have coffee." Molly's posture tensed when she asked the question, anxious but satisfied in herself that she had made the offer, judging by the slight smile she made to herself afterward.
Coffee did sound lovely.
Finishing off his notes he shut the notebook and stashed it away back into his pocket, giving her what he assumed would be a friendly demeanor as he accepted her offer. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." Before she could respond, he turned away, making a hasty exit from the room. He didn't want to give her an opportunity to attempt to clear up his assumed misunderstanding of her meaning so he hurried away. He was already through the doors when he heard her speak up one last time with a dejected but attempted cheery tone.
"Okay…"
Maintaining a steady hand, Sherlock managed to measure out a few drops of the chemical mixture upon the blood sample he had prepared for testing. He managed to have the lab to himself again, Molly still missing to retrieve the coffee for him. So far the reaction in the blood was promising, the expected result playing out when he heard footsteps approaching the laboratory. Was she coming back already? No, the pacing was all wrong.
"…you'll see that things have changed since our day back here."
That was Stamford's voice, he knew it well by this point but the gate accompanying his own weighted lope was unfamiliar. It was hitched, accompanied by the metallic clack of a cane. Soon Mike appeared through the door, glancing his way and flashing a knowing smile with a low chuckle at him before he turned and held the door open for his unexpected companion. The uneven footsteps entered the room and Sherlock spared the stranger a glance, hardly raising his head in the slightest as his eyes darted to the doorway.
A woman entered the lab, not Molly, obviously. This woman was unfamiliar to him. She was in her mid thirties at least, hair uneven and roughly shoulder length, must have meant she let it grow out from a shorter style and neglected a routine trim judging by the lack of uniform to it. Her face was tanned, not falsely; otherwise she wouldn't have had a tan line partially sheltered by the fall of her hair just beneath her hairline. She was just below average in height but her posture was erect in spite of her hand upon the cane when she came to a halt in the lab.
"You're right. They picked up a new incubator, I see." The woman pointed out with a slight smile, her attention more on Mike than on him. Brilliant, he didn't want to deal with another woman anyway.
"Yeah, the old one has been moved upstairs." Mike contributed. His attention towards the woman was very focused aside from the secretive smile he passed towards him while the woman was observing the chemical cabinet, her back to him so the notion went unnoticed. Clearly the man was congratulating himself for something he had accomplished with the woman in the room and was attempting to silently share that victory with him. He dropped his eyes back to the slide, interest lost on Mike's little accomplishments. Inserting the slide under the microscope, he peered through the eyepiece.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He requested, still observing the blood sample as he heard the two shuffle about the room.
"What's wrong with the landline?" Stamford asked, the tone of his voice slightly exasperated.
"I prefer to text."
"Sorry, it's in my other coat." He dismissed, turning his attention to the woman. "Have a look around, I'm just going to pop by the office and get the wallet, won't be long."
"Alright," she confirmed, her attention finally shifting to Sherlock.
Stanford left the laboratory right after she had spoken and Sherlock expected an unnatural silence to form between them while they waited for him to return. Most women would glance at him, watch, or just stare like he was some rare animal spotted in the wild. This one, however, reached into her pocket and withdrew her phone, holding it aloft.
"Here," she angled it toward him, raising an eyebrow when he glanced at her. "You wanted to text, right? Use mine."
"Oh." He paused, a little surprised. "Thank you."
He left his sample, crossing the lab and taking the phone from her. When he plucked it from her fingers he caught sight of her wrist where the sleeve had crept down from her extended arm, gaining the proof he hardly needed that her tan was, indeed, natural thanks to the paleness above her wrist. Flipping the phone about in his hand, he unlocked the screen and began typing out the number and text he intended to send. He barely got the numbers down when the curiosity of which would make his inner deduction correct bubbled up past his lips. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
There as a brief silence in the room before the woman spoke up. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated, sending the text.
"Afghanistan—how did you—" her inquiry he expected to come forth was cut short by the door opening, catching his attention.
Molly appeared at last, keeping a careful pace as she brought him the coffee he had previously asked for. He ignored the other woman in favor of the hot beverage. "Ah, Molly. Coffee. Thank you." He extended his hand and she passed it to him. He returned the phone to its owner, keeping his attention on the medical examiner. "What happened to the lipstick?"
Her expression deflated a little as she started to twist her hands together briefly. "It wasn't working for me."
"Really? I thought it was a great improvement. Your mouth's too…small now." He stated, turning away to return to his spot.
The weary, "Okay" returned and he saw Molly turn to leave, her attention focusing on the other woman in the room with curiosity blooming in her features at first. After a beat, however, she ducked her head and left the lab again without another word. The woman watched her leave, eyes darting back to Sherlock while he sipped at the cup of coffee.
"Are you a medical student?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
"Mike lets me use the lab whenever I need to conduct an experiment. Microscope is of better quality." Sherlock set the coffee aside, wrinkling his nose briefly at the bitter taste of it in spite of the two sugars he had requested. "Speaking of whom, you might as well know: he intends to get off with you later."
A strangled noise rose from the woman's throat as she fumbled for words, choking on them in her shock. He nearly smiled at the comical nature of the sound but kept himself stoic as he observed the sample under the microscope. "What on earth would give you that idea?"
"A middle-aged man, no wife, not girlfriend, works most of the week with little social time—suddenly runs into a woman whom he had prior acquaintance with and intends to take her out to lunch. Cleary, he plans to tap into your previous experience with him and build up from there until—if everything proceeds as he hoped—you bed him."
The woman shook her head but he could see the thought dawning on her. Of course, she would grow angry next and undoubtedly begin to throw a fit once Mike returned but she remained silent when the door swung open again and Mike appeared, holding his wallet aloft and giving it a victorious shake as he smiled at her. The woman turned to him, her gaze alert but her smile almost completely masking her previous shock. Even he had to admit, the performance was convincing.
"What did you two chat about while I was out?" Mike asked, pocketing his wallet as he looked between the two of them.
"Nothing important," the woman supplied, "I merely asked him if he was a medical student here."
"No, Holmes only comes here to play around with the equipment every now and then. Since he never causes too much damage, I never saw much harm in letting him linger. We chat every now and then. In fact, this is the fellow I mentioned earlier when we spoke about difficult flatmates."
Sherlock perked at the mention of a flatmate and glanced back to the unlikely couple with a quirk of his eyebrow. He barely paid attention to the fact they were talking about him while he was in the same room before but now there was something promising. For weeks he had been looking for a place, even invested a chance at a property owned by Mrs. Hudson, a former client of his. He checked into it alone on a previous occasion and while he did find the residence preferable, he couldn't afford it alone. Even with the diluted rent Mrs. Hudson offered to him, other expenses made the full charge undesirable.
"Been talking about me again, I see." He chimed in, the two turning to him. "What brought this on?"
"I am looking for a flat at a reasonable price, but, with this being London, the results are not promising." The woman explained, her tone trying to write it off as nothing. She turned to Mike afterward. "If you have your funds in order, I believe we can go."
"Of course," he indicated the way out; stepping forward to open the door for her while she maneuvered herself to leave.
The idea came slow at first as he watched them depart but then it cemented itself as he made a brief calculation of what a former soldier earned from an army pension combined with his own funds. The results were promising and spurred him into speaking up before they barely even stepped out of the doorway. "How do you feel about the violin?"
The woman hesitated just in the doorframe. "Sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He cracked a smile at her while she stared at him, a hand reaching out to push the door further open as she turned, leaning her shoulder into it to hold it open even though Mike had been holding it already.
"Who said anything about becoming flatmates?" she raised an eyebrow.
"I did." He stated, "You are looking for a flat with a low rental fee. I happen to know of one. Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7 o'clock." Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, checking the time as it was useless for anything else before dropping it back into place. He abandoned the project, grabbing up his coat from where it had been draped over a chair and slinging it on. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
"Riding crop?" Mike asked as he fetched his scarf, securing it about his neck while he moved across the room, abandoning the coffee where it sat. He brushed off the question without gracing it with an answer and passed Mike. The woman shuffled herself out of the way just as he swept past her into the hallway. He was only a few strides down the passage when he heard her speak up again.
"Is that it, then?"
Sherlock turned about. "Is that what?"
"We've just met and now we're going to look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting—I don't even know your name." She rattled.
He chuckled at her concern even though there was no cause for it, considering he wasn't the one who wanted to bed her unlike the man standing behind her, still partially concealed within the lab. Still, she had pointed out how they knew nothing about one another and that was not entirely true. It was a one-sided miscomprehension, of course, always was. He took a quick breath as he narrowed his eyes a little upon her person, re-gathering the traits he had fished from her demeanor as he had upon her first arrival.
"I know that you're an army doctor and that you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. That's, enough to being going on, don't you think?" Her baffled expression was all the clarification he needed that the discussion was over since she would be too stunned to argue as most other people would be. He turned to leave but neglected two more points of her protest, stilling his departure and glancing back over his shoulder at her. "The name, ma'am, is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street."
He spun about to finally take his leave but once again, this woman seemed to want to have the last word. "My name," she struck her cane upon the floor, stilling his feet one last time "is Johnna Watson."
Peeking back over his shoulder again, Sherlock saw the same glare any other person he encountered shot his way. Amused by her frustration at being addressed with something reserved for older women, Sherlock smirked. He knew that 85 % of women responded in negative whenever they were addressed as 'ma'am' and she was no exception. The resulting frustration thus spurred her into stating her own name to prevent him calling her that again. She neglected to notice she never introduced herself when she spoke to him and this was a more entertaining means. He met her challenging glower with a wink. "Afternoon."
The last word was his.